Understanding
by tfm
Summary: Emily tries to distinguish her personal life from her professional life. After the devastating actions of a killer, the team tries to prevent losing her to the unsub, and to herself. mild fslash. Emily/OFC. Complete.
1. Understanding

Understanding

_**What else is love but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts, and experiences otherwise than we do…?**_

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

***

I

I have a secret. A secret they will never truly understand.

They may be the greatest profiling minds in the world, but unless I tell them, they will never know. I may have given subtle hints – used specific words, done specific things – but unless I tell them, they will never know. And I won't tell.

I'm at a bar. Outside, it looks like any other bar. Neon lights, stoic bouncer. Just the right amount of seediness. Inside, it looks like any other bar. Booths, jukebox, noisy patrons. But the heart, the soul of the bar.

It's different.

I'm sitting alone in a booth. A few drink offers come my way. A few drunken propositions. I decline. I'm waiting. Thinking that this is the one place where I can be understood. The one place where nothing matters.

Morgan. Morgan wouldn't understand. He exudes such an easy confidence. Each potential lover is a conquest to him. He might smile, nod and give awkward encouragement, but he would never truly understand.

My mother taught me to hide my emotions. To be that perfectly behaved child, who would never scream, never cry. Her lessons had a greater impact, more devastating. I hide my true self. Locked away inside of me. Waiting to come out.

Rossi. Rossi wouldn't understand. He's like Morgan in a way, at times overcome with arrogance. Often stuck in the old ways, it would be strange to him.

As soon as I started college, my mother started setting me up with the most eligible bachelors. Not out of consideration for my own well-being, but to strengthen political relations. I think I disappointed her. I couldn't deny that there was definite chemistry – these were the top of the crop. Smart, handsome, successful. I'm not unfamiliar to intimate encounters. But my heart lay elsewhere.

Reid. Reid might understand. He has the same awkwardness. The same problem, yet a different problem altogether. He has his own secrets. I don't want to burden him.

The bar is changing shifts. Slowly transitioning from the drinks after to dinner crowd to the other crowd. The ones who have come for the action. The music changes. It's subtle, but my practised ear catches it. It's almost eight.

Garcia. Garcia would probably understand. And that was the problem. She would understand too well. She would make a big deal out of it. Loud encouragement. That's not something I want.

I don't want pats on the back, affirmations of loyalty. I want them to say, "Really? Okay" and then never speak of it again. But that won't happen.

JJ. JJ might understand. She had kept her own love secret for so long – for different reasons of course, but I found a strange sense of unrequited solidarity nonetheless. It wasn't the same.

Am I paranoid? Am I setting the bar too high? Probably. But then, I was taught to achieve perfection.

Hotch. Hotch might understand. Like me, he rarely wears his heart on the sleeve. But his experiences with love are limited. He can only see with the vision that his experience has granted him.

A drink is set on the table in front of me. I look up and meet hazel eyes, framed with soft spikes of ochre. Our lips meet, hers a soft velvet. My hand roams, brushing soft leather, cotton, and then finally, skin. No-one takes a second glance. Because that's the type of place this is.

It doesn't matter that she doesn't have a degree in Psychology. That she doesn't observe human behaviour for a living. Because she is the one person who will always truly understand me.

**A/N: I thought this might be a nice change from the "I'm gay, guys. Come on JJ, let's go fuck in the supply closet," femmeslash fics.**

**Edit: For the best coming out story, go read the Half a Life story-arc from DC's Gotham Central. For Batman fans.**

**Edit2: Screw it. I'm making this a series.  
**


	2. Tears In The Rain

Understanding

_**Riches do not delight us so much with their possession, as torment us with their loss.**_

_Dick Gregory_

***

II

I've always loved the rain.

That feeling you get as it pounds down around you. All the hurt, all the pain is washed away.

You feel alive.

I've always loved the rain.

Until tonight.

Tonight, I relish it mildly; it's the only thing preventing the rest of the team from noticing that it's not just rain that's soaking my face.

Two days. Three bodies in two days. I'm a little upset when JJ gets the call. I had plans for tonight.

'Another body,' she had told us. 'Found in an alleyway.' I got out my phone, tried and postpone our plans, but there was no answer. I didn't worry – not straight away. There's always a reason. My curiosity piqued. The area we were driving through was so familiar.

I got out of the car and my heart was racing. The tears hadn't started yet.

This is where I was supposed to be.

Even from a distance, I could tell. That sophisticated yet rebellious look is unmistakeable. All those moments lost.

I move a little closer, cautiously, ignoring a concerned glance from Hotch. I have to see. I almost trip on the sidewalk, my focus is so narrow.

I look down. Those hazel eyes, staring up into mine. Empty of mind, empty of soul. Blood had once slicked her hair, but the rain is washing it away.

I hate the rain.

I kneel down beside her. I imagine my name on her lips. Were those her last words? Did she die screaming my name? Screaming for help.

I overhear the conversation between Hotch and the responding officer. '...raped and beaten to death, just like the rest.'

Just like the rest.

Compartmentalizing isn't the easiest skill. It takes a lot of effort, a lot of practice. Even the tiniest thing can send you over the edge. A torrent pushes past the barriers.

I think I'm going to be sick.

***

She rushes past him, into the ladies room. He seems unperturbed by it. It was his first instinct too, when he was taking out the trash. He saw her lying there. Broken. He'd always like her. Liked both of them. They tipped well, were good conversation. He'd give her free drinks tonight, if she ever stopped vomiting.

A man followed her in, slower pace, but there was still a sense of impatience about him. A second man. Tall, muscular, dark skin. The bartender wonders if he's single.

'She's in the back,' he tells this new man. His suit is drenched. His slicked hair sticks to his face.

'I've got it,' says the dark skinned man. The bartender almost sighs in disappointment.

The first man – Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner, he introduces himself – asks. 'You knew the victim?'

'She was a regular. Twice a week, usually.' He pours himself a glass of bourbon. Offers the Special Agent one. The Special Agent declines.

'Alone?'

'Only when her date couldn't make it. Work commitments.'

'The same date every time?'

'Yep.' He wonders how long it will take for the Special Agent to realise. Why he hasn't realized already. Then he remembers. She's with the FBI.

Something, at least, clicks for the Special Agent. He looks around, looks at the people in the bar. He's not being critical, he's been analytical.

'What type of bar is this?'

'A gay bar,' he answers without hesitation. The Special Agent isn't a man to pass judgement; he knows that in the thirty seconds they've spent together.

'The victim's date, do you remember her name?'

'Yeah,' says the bartender. 'Her name is Emily.'

And then, for Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, everything clicks.

***

I'm always telling Enrique that he needs to clean these bathrooms. I joke with him, tell him I'll arrest him on the grounds of health and safety violations. He would laugh, pour me another drink, and I'd forget all about the bathrooms.

I'm not even noticing in now. I'm on my knees, emptying my stomach into the toilet bowl. Someone comes in at one point. Holds my hair back. Holds me. It might be Morgan, but I can't tell. I'm sobbing too hard to hear the soft, comforting sounds that he's making, or at least trying to make.

I think my stomach's empty now. I didn't really eat much today. She'd tell me I'm too skinny, and poke at one of my ribs to prove a point. What usually happened next isn't something I'd repeat in mixed company.

Just thinking about it makes we want to shut it all off. Instead, I curl up into a ball, closing myself off to the world. Morgan puts a hand on my shoulder, and I can vaguely hear him ask me what's wrong. A second person – Hotch – comes into the picture, and pulls Morgan away. Out of my earshot.

_They know_, a little voice in the back of my head tells me, but I don't listen. It's blocked out by the incessant screaming of the rest of my brain.

I've never felt pain like this before.

I know what that means. It means it was real. Not a fling, not a stage of development. Raw. Honest. Gone. Washed away. All those moments lost.

God, I hate the rain.


	3. Solidarity

Understanding

_**A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,**__**  
**__**We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; **__**  
**__**But were we burdened with like weight of pain,**__**  
**__**As much or more we should ourselves complain.**_

_William Shakespeare_

***

III

I wake up.

I'm cold. I can't breathe.

Is this what it feels like to have your soul ripped out of you?

A calm hand steadies me. Hands me a glass of water. I drink, and it makes me feel a little better.

'How're you feeling?' Hotch asks me.

'A little better,' I lie, and I know it's convincing. I can lie with the best of them. I look around, observe my surroundings. I'm in the break room, on the couch. I don't even remember falling asleep.

'Do you want me to take you home?' Hotch asks.

I shake my head. No. I feel sick to my stomach. No amount of deep breathing or prolonged mourning is going to help that. I want to work this case. Find the sick son of a bitch that had the nerve to do this to her.

It's all I can do.

***

They're looking at me. I can feel their eyes on me. Judging me? Pitying me? I try to ignore it. I never wanted this. Never wanted the attention, never wanted the coddling. I'm happy just to fade into obscurity. As if that's going to happen now.

'Our latest victim,' JJ begins. Usually she's got the pictures up there by now. Mutilated corpses, dripping with blood. An evil masterpiece. 'Alyson Stewart.' She hated that name. She hated when people called her Alyson. Demanded they call her Lee. Sometimes people chuckled slightly when we introduced ourselves, as if epistrophe was the most hilarious thing in the universe. Only her parents called her Alyson. I wonder if they've been told yet. I don't want that burden.

She looks at me briefly before putting the pictures on screen. I lock away all those little things that make me human. The fear, the pain, the guilt. For the next sixteen minutes, all I am is an empty shell.

We have a solid profile now.

Two might have been coincidence. Three, we start getting suspicious, and four is usually an indication of a specific target.

Thirties to forties, female, with a history of same sex relationships. It doesn't even concern me that I might fit that victimology, because right now, I'm just a shell.

***

I'm sitting in the car with JJ and Morgan. We're going to speak to Lee's parents. They've already been notified officially; this is just standard questioning. "Did your daughter have any enemies? Did your daughter ever have any bad break-ups?" Things like that.

It's a nice house. A bit out of town, though. I've been here three times. The first time I lost all confidence in myself and almost fainted on the sidewalk. It's ironic, almost, that I can retain my composure when dealing with month-old corpses, flies turning to maggots. Confront me with a personal situation, and I lose my shit completely. One of those things I guess.

The door opens to a man, mid-fifties with tear-stained eyes. Alexander Stewart. He greets Morgan and JJ with professional handshake, and before I can prepare for it, he hugs me. He's holding on for dear life, afraid to let go. The truth is, I don't want him to let go.

He does, eventually, and leads us into the house. I see Morgan examining the photos on the wall. A couple surprise him; Lee's thirtieth birthday, four years ago. Me hugging her tightly. I can almost see the gears in his brain turning. He's re-evaluating how well he knows me.

Lee's mother is sitting on the couch, staring blankly at a photo of her lost daughter. I remember that photo. I took that photo. It was Christmas last year, and Lee's reaching up. Putting the star on top of the tree. I've never had a better Christmas.

'Christine...' I say softly, not wanting to interrupt her mourning. She looks up, as if she only just noticed we were there.

'Emily?' She seems surprised to see me. I can't say I blame her. I know I'd almost rather be in my condo, curtains drawn, feeling sorry for myself. Almost. I'm here now for Lee.

I look into her eyes, and see the same sadness that haunts her husband's. The same sadness that's eating me away inside. I have to find the man who did this. For them.

And when I do? I might just kill the fucker.


	4. Identity

Understanding

_**When anger rises, think of the consequences.**_

_Confucius_

***

IV

Sorrow has given way to anger. Revenge fantasies are playing out it my head. Wouldn't it be nice, for one fleeting moment, to let go of everything, and just kill.

_She wouldn't want you to do that_, a little voice tells me. That little voice is far too soft. It's being drowned out by all the others, urging me to exact vengeance. I let out a tiny sigh.

Morgan glances at me from the driver's seat. He gives me a half-smile. He's trying his hardest to be supportive, but he doesn't understand. If not for the circumstances, I'm sure he'd be asking me all kinds of questions. Awkward questions. I'd tolerate the awkwardness, if it brought her back.

_Nothing will bring her back_, says the tiny voice. It really needs to speak up, because I'm not sure I'm listening to it anymore.

***

We go to Enrique's bar next. JJ and Morgan talk to the other employees. I talk to Enrique.

The second he sees me, he's filling up a glass. Long Island Iced Tea. It's what I drink after a hard case.

'I'm on the clock,' I tell him. He raises and eyebrow at me, as if to say "Seriously?" I shrug, and take the proffered drink. It's only eleven in the morning.

'I need to know if you've seen anyone unusual around the place,' I tell him. 'Anyone that might have been watching the rest of the customers. This person wouldn't have been interested in hook-ups.' That kind of thing, I probably should have noticed myself. If they were there watching Lee, then they were there watching me as well.

Blindsided.

'Yeah,' he says. 'Guy called Bill. Comes in on Thursday nights.' One of the nights I – we – used to come in. 'He always sits by himself at a table in the back. Doesn't bother anyone, and doesn't wanting anyone bothering him.' You get the best view from the back. A wide angle view of the rest of the bar.

'Do you know Bill's last name?'

'No,' he tells me. 'But he always pays with credit. I'll try and find you his receipts.'

He goes into an office at the back, and I take a long sip of my drink. It goes straight to my head, and that's exactly what I need right now. To forget everything.

He hands me a thick sheaf of receipts. Bill obviously drinks here a lot. I pocket them, eager to get the credit card details back to Garcia. At the same time, I'm almost considering tracking down this "Bill" myself.

'Oh,' Enrique says, before I can quell my inner turmoil. 'We're doing a memorial service on Wednesday, after the funeral. Private party.'

I nod. I'll be there.

For her.

***

My wildly rocking conscience gets the better of me as I return to the BAU. I give the credit card receipts to Garcia.

'Twenty minutes,' she promises me.

In that time, I go back to my desk. There's a package, sitting there, waiting for me. I open it, cautiously. There's a note atop the contents. Lee's personal effects. Legally speaking, Christine was her next of kin, but according to the note, Christine had asked that they be sent to me. A tear threatened to escape. I held it back.

Underneath the note, the first thing I see is her jacket, and my barriers almost break. She loved that jacket. Even in summer she would refuse to take it off. I hold it to my face, taking in the scent of expensive cigarettes and bourbon. I try to forget that she died in this jacket. Miraculously, there are no stains. It's one thing that I can hold on to.

I take off my own jacket – professional, ironed, button-up – and shrug on this leather safety net. It's warm and familiar. The kind of place I want to be right now.

***

'William Burke. 27. Here's your address.' She hands me a slip of paper, pity filling her eyes. Right now, I don't need pity.

Hotch, being Hotch, refuses to let me question him. I can accompany him, certainly, but I'm not allowed to talk.

Talking isn't what I'm interested in.

It's a big place for a guy so young. He lives alone, or so Garcia tells me.

We knock. There isn't enough evidence for a warrant – we'll just be questioning him for now. He opens the door, double-takes when he sees me. He recovers quickly.

'Mr. Burke. We're with the FBI. SSA Hotchner, this is SSA Prentiss. May we come in please?'

'By all means.' He steps back, letting us in. I look at his face. I wonder if he got off on her screams.

'I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Alyson Stewart.' I say nothing. I just sit there, watching. He doesn't seem nervous. He seems relaxed, comfortable. He wants to co-operate.

'The name is unfamiliar to me,' he says, with a tilt of his head, as if to apologise.

Hotch brings out the photo. I don't look away. It's not a morgue photo. It's one I gave him. The one hidden in my wallet underneath my credit cards.

He ignores Hotch completely now, turns to me. 'I'm so sorry,' he says. There are tears in his eyes. He doesn't even like it when other people suffer.

I brush it off.

'The bartender tells us that you come in on Thursday nights. You watch, all night. May I ask why?' His questioning method is calm, methodical. He knows this guy didn't do it just as well as I do.

'I live alone, Agent Hotchner. I have no-one in my life. Sometimes it's nice to go where there are people and just sit. They don't judge me.' He seemed saddened when he said this. I understand easily that he's just a lonely guy, wanting a bit of company.

In spite of Hotch's warnings, I slip in a question of my own. 'Why do you refuse all advances?' I tried a soft tone, as much as it hurt me to. One that made it perfectly clear that I was being curious rather than accusing.

'I'm...afraid, I guess.' He fiddles nervously with his watch. I try giving him a reassuring smile, though it's obvious it's taking a great deal of effort.

'Just...be yourself.' It's lame advice, and I know it. Especially considering my own circumstances.

Because without her, I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore.


	5. Darkness

Understanding

_**Living is easy with eyes closed.**_

_John Lennon/Paul McCartney_

***

V

I'm in the break room, and Morgan's making coffee. I take a sip. Strong coffee.

'I don't need sobering up, Morgan,' I tell him.

He gives me a look, as if to say "You think you're fooling me?"

'I'm not denying the indiscretion. I'm just saying it takes at least two more before I'm even feeling tipsy.' I drink the coffee anyway, knowing that complete sobriety isn't necessarily a bad thing.

He's staring at me. He can't help it, but I know he is.

'Four years, six months, thirteen days.' I finally say, and I know that it's the answer he was wanting. I shrug, and add, 'I really don't like mixing my personal life with my professional life.' I remember telling him the same thing once before, about four years and four months ago. I almost told him then. It was on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to be let out.

It's all waiting to be let out now.

'She liked Slaughterhouse-Five,' I say suddenly. His face is impassive, but I can tell he wants me to continue. 'I mentioned Kilgore Trout, once, and I thought I'd fucked it up big time. I was freaking out for days. Then, about a week later, she rings me up, and tells me she's just finished reading Slaughterhouse-Five. Wants to know if she can borrow my copy of Breakfast of Champions. Now she's as big a fan as I am.' I stop, realise what I'm saying. 'Was,' I corrected myself.

I hadn't meant for it all to come spilling out like that. I guess it's easier, now that they know.

I say something else. I know he wasn't asking, and I know he wasn't going to ask, but I say it anyway. I say it, because I want him to understand. I say, 'You don't choose who you fall in love with,' and then I leave him to his coffee.

***

Hotch enters just as she leaves. He makes straight for the coffee pot. It's a long day for all of them. He takes a sip and almost spits it out. 'How much coffee is in this?' he asks of Morgan.

'I'll make a fresh pot,' says Morgan, tipping out the coffee. It is the kind of coffee that could have woken coma patients.

'How's she doing?' Hotch asks. He is feeling particularly protective, but he knows he can't be hovering over her all the time.

Morgan pauses before he answers. 'She was seriously in love, man,' he finally says. There is silence between them. They are each pondering the situation in their own way. 'Why couldn't she tell us?' Morgan says aloud. He's asking himself as much as he's asking Hotch.

'Compartmentalization,' concludes Hotch.

***

I'm sitting at my desk, racking my brains. A list of every place Lee and I have been together in the last three weeks. It's not a particularly long list; my caseload's been pretty heavy, and she has – had – deadlines coming up. Enrique's. Grocery store. My place. Her place. My head is swimming. I grip the pen tightly.

Am I cracking?

How much longer can I keep up these barriers?

Do I even want to keep up the barriers anymore?

I remember why they were put up in the first place. To keep myself separated, professional and private. Even as a child, there were certain things I couldn't do in public, things I had to relegate to another place, another time. That professional and private division has endured until now. Now, I don't even know if I'll need a private self anymore. I don't know if I want one. The only thing that was ever important there was Lee.

And now she's gone.

Do I really have the strength to throw all that away?

The answer is too hard to come by, apparently. My mind retaliates by shutting down.

All I am is darkness.

And honestly, I don't see what's so bad about it.

***

I wake up. I'm on the couch again. People are standing around me in a semi-circle. I take a moment to recognise faces. Hotch. Morgan. JJ. A bunch of others I don't even recognise. _Dammit._ This kind of attention is really the last thing I want.

'I'm fine,' I put a hand out as JJ reaches forward to help me up. Being the focus of their thoughts is bad enough, but I'm really not ready to be dealing with physical contact right now.

'When was the last time you ate?' Hotch asks, concerned. 'Do you have a fever?'

'Wasn't exactly expecting the Spanish Inquisition, Hotch. I'm fine, seriously. It must be the heat.' It's a joke, but none of them laugh. A good portion of federal funding is spent on air-conditioning.

It's been at least twenty-four hours since I last ate. Probably more. And I think I vomited all of that up anyway.

He turns to Morgan. 'Take her home. Make sure she eats, gets plenty of fluids.'

I protest. Home is the last place I want to be right now. 'I'd rather stay.'

He's not falling for it. 'You've had a very trying day, Emily. We'll take care of the investigation. You take care of yourself.'

'Please don't turn this into a thing, Hotch.' I shoot fiery glances at the other Bureau employees that seem to be hanging a little too close. They scatter. 'I don't want...I don't want people staring at me, as if I'm some kind of spectacle. I don't want them tip-toeing on eggshells, as if any sudden movement is going to send me into tears. I don't want this to turn into a thing where people think I need to be sent home if something traumatic happens. Right now, I want to stay here and help solve this case.'

I'm not yelling, but my voice has an intensity to it. The kind I usually reserve for unsubs and unhelpful service assistants. It doesn't deter Hotch. He stares into my eyes, and I know right now that he isn't seeing me as weak. He's seeing me as human.

'It's not a weakness to let your friends be there in your time of need,' he tells me. The word "friends" has a subtle emphasis to it. Almost accusing. As if he's saying "we're your friends, why don't you trust us with your secrets?"

Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

But then, I let Morgan take me home anyway.


	6. Nausea

Understanding

_**Don't ever take a fence down until you know the reason it was put up.**_

_G. K. Chesterton_

***

VI

I dump my mail on the kitchen counter. I'm not interested in seeing how much I owe which companies right now. Morgan's checking the fridge. He's not going to find anything that isn't liquid, six weeks old, or completely unsuitable for a meal.

'Why is there so much whipped cream in your fridge?' he asks me.

My head snaps up. For one fleeting moment, my mind provides me with that perfect memory. After that, it's just reminding me of what I've lost.

'No reason. I've been meaning to throw it out.' I take the pressurised can and dispose of it. It's nothing but a dessert topping now.

'When was the last time you cleaned out this fridge?' It's a demand, rather than a question. 'Or filled it, for that matter.'

'We just spent three weeks in Colorado hunting a serial killer. I didn't have time for shopping.' A lie. Thinking of work helps. I'm shutting out the part of me that thinks of Lee as a person. Not because I want to. Because I have to.

My mind keeps jumping.

Errant thoughts trying to jump barriers.

Chaos.

I sit down. I'm feeling light-headed. Maybe food isn't such a bad idea.

'I think there might be some stuff in the pantry,' I tell him.

I think about death. I think about mutilated, rotting corpses. I think about burning flesh. I think about sick, twisted executioners. I think about the depths of human depravity. Somehow, it makes me feel a little better.

It's raining outside. God I hate the rain.

***

He's managed to put together a decent meal. It seems that he has as much experience as I do at putting together a feast with nothing but scraps. Not much time for shopping with this job. The last time I went shopping was the day before yesterday and even then it was just for a few things. Lee refuses – refused – to stay the night if I don't – didn't – have any herbal tea in the cupboards. I think there's still three-quarters of a box. I can't stand the stuff.

'You've got messages on your machine,' Morgan tells me, after handing me a fork. I don't really want to listen to them. I know what they'll be. "Deepest sympathies," "Sorry to hear what happened." Stuff I really don't need to hear right now.

But I appease Morgan.

'Hey, Em, it's Sarah. I heard about Lee-'

Delete.

'Emily, this is your mothe-'

Delete.

'Ms. Prentiss. I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Carlisle of-'

Delete.

Six messages in all, the majority of them solicitations of sympathy.

And then, the letters.

Bill, bill, bank statement.

'What's this one?' Morgan picks up a plain, white envelope. It doesn't have an address or a postmark on it, just my name, printed in tiny neat handwriting. I slice it open, overcome by curiosity.

On a piece of plain white paper, in the same fastidious handwriting, the words "You're next."

Fan-fucking-tastic.

***

Morgan's on the phone. I'm sitting staring at the television. It's turned off. Just a grey box. My eyes flicker. See a frame, frozen. A memory. Curled up on the couch, watching DVDs. A hand snaked about my waist. What were we watching?

It's not a hard question. The DVDs are still there, sitting there innocuously. I couldn't count the number of times we've watched them.

Fear gets you killed, anger keeps you alive.

I'm a little moody right now. I guess that's an indication of something. Anger is at the top of the list. The list cycles, but anger always seems to make its way to the top.

All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again.

What do I feel now? Ambivalence.

_Are you alive?_

Life is subjective, anyway.

***

Hotch decides it's best if I come back to the office. Safer. That's the kind of thing I could throw in his face. I've eaten, at least, so he can't bitch at me about that. They're giving me sympathetic looks. It makes me want to tear off their faces.

I excuse myself, head to the ladies room. Morgan's meal is making me feel nauseous, and I'm pretty sure it's not the food itself. Lingering sickness.

I set my bag on the toilet seat, pull out my phone. This is the real reason I want to be alone. No glued eyes, no carefully placed expressions. Just me. I think.

I can't remember the number. It's not as if I call it on a regular basis. I think I might have it written down somewhere. I search through my bag, trying to find that little scrap of paper that has my whole future written on it.

Bingo.

I dial the number, shaking fingers. I've got a good guess as to what this is about, and it's really the last thing I need right now.

'Hello? Yeah, my name is Emily Prentiss. I got a message on my answering machine, but it got deleted. Oh, it was to call back? Well, this is me calling back...' God, I hate telephones. I just know I'm making an idiot out of myself. I can just imagine the secretary on the other end of the line, rolling her eyes.

What she says next doesn't surprise me. I really don't need this shit right now. Timing is everything, they say. And boy are they right. Three years I've been waiting for this. Three whole fucking years, and it comes now.

Congratulations.

I think I'm going to be sick.

**A/N: Ten points to anyone who can spot the pop culture references I've littered throughout this piece.**


	7. Fire

Understanding

_**To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.**_

_Bertrand Russell_

***

Interlude I

_Four years, six months and thirteen days ago._

It's raining. I've always loved the rain.

It's cold rain. It strikes your skin, freezing. It's not quite an ice storm, but it's enough to make you feel alive. I don't mind. Alive is something I'm trying pretty hard to feel right now.

I don't want to go back inside. It's cold as hell, but I'd rather be standing out here than back in there. I need a cigarette, but my lighter's on the fritz. Fifteen years old, the Zippo is the product of youthful rebellion and, later on, an unhealthy fascination with graphic novels. The engraving feels rough under my fingertips.

That lighter has been through every hell I have. Every scratch, every dent, comes from one of my lifetime experiences. I guess time his taken its toll, because out here, in the rain, it won't ignite. It's broken. I'm broken.

All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.

A single flame. A light at the end of the tunnel.

I suck at the cigarette, relishing the deadly chemicals that fill my lungs.

'Thank-you.' I turn to my savior. Like me, she has braved the cold, wet conditions for a single cigarette. Hazel eyes smile in conjunction with pale pink lips. Her hair is darkened by the rain that soaks it.

'Men, huh?' She says in reply. Obviously she saw what went down inside. Four times he tried, and four times he wouldn't take no for an answer. I just wanted to be alone.

'He'll get out of hospital soon enough,' I say flatly. There's no enthusiasm in my voice.

I am broken.

It's cold – freezing – but I don't think I notice it.

There's something about her that wants me to open up, tell her of every single thing that's bothering me right now. But I don't.

'Makes you want to ignore them altogether. Men, that is.'

'No,' I say. 'I've tried that. I think I've lost faith in the human race altogether.'

'We're not all so bad,' she tells me. And I believe her. It's why, when she asks me if I want to go back inside, warm up, get a drink, I say yes.

Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

***

Her name is Alyson – Lee – Stewart she's twenty-nine years old, and she's the editor of an obscure crime fiction magazine called _Pulp_. I tell her I'm with the FBI. I don't tell her that I'm supposed to be in the BAU, but some idiot forgot to give them the fucking transfer papers. I like to keep my work and my personal life separate.

She grins, asks if she can consult me on the novel she's trying to write. I give her my cell phone number. Normally I'd give her my card, but I don't really have one right now.

She asks me what I'm into. I reply with vague, but hopefully acceptable answers. Reading, movies, etc. I don't tell her that I can list a good majority of the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition. I don't tell her that I was once grounded for two months after being caught reading _Great Expectations_ at one of my mother's numerous ambassadorial events. That I was almost arrested at thirteen for stealing a first edition copy of _To the Lighthouse_. That, at nine years old, I dressed up as Princess Leia for a midnight screening of _The Empire Strikes Back_.

I've got the strangest feeling that I don't want to jeopardize this yet.

***

'You don't have to work tomorrow?' she asks me. It's almost midnight.

'No,' I say, without a trace of bitterness. 'No, I've got tomorrow off.' My ear is to the ground. The BAU is still in St. Louis – for now. I might do a bit of calling around, try and figure out why my transfer papers didn't go through. But I can do that with a hangover.

She's kissing me. It's soft, gentle, passionate. It's unexpected, and yet it's almost as though I've been waiting for it all night. I want this.

Do I?

I'm enjoying it, there's no doubt about that. But I want to take this slowly. I don't want to screw it up.

Apparently, she senses my hesitation. She pulls back, leaving me breathless.

'Do you want me to stop?' she asks. Her eyebrows lift in concern.

'No.'

***

I'm sitting on his couch. I got the phone call three hours ago. They're flying back today. When he walks in, he looks like he's had a rough day. I guess they're all rough.

'Please tell me you haven't been there for the last four days.' He sounds exasperated, and I don't blame him. It's not his fault someone else fucked up.

And what have I been doing for the last four days?

I've been putting my life back together.


	8. Deception

Understanding

_**You never find yourself until you face the truth.**_

_Pearl Bailey_

***

VII

He sees her return from the bathroom, brushing absent-mindedly at a spot on her shirt collar. Vomiting again. But is that all? He doesn't think so. There's a flustered look on her face, no matter how much she tries to hide it.

He doesn't understand.

Why won't she let them help?

***

The phone rings just as I return. Garcia. She's found a connection.

We're all crowded around her, staring at the multitude of screens. We didn't need to be here for her to tell us, but we're here anyway.

They're here. For me.

She gives me a sideways glance. Questioning me. Evaluation me. I ignore it.

'All four victims were involved in IVF treatments at the Howell Clinic,' she tells them. 'It's a fertility clinic.' I close my eyes. I really don't want to see their faces now.

Three years. Three years, we've been trying.

'It's a big clinic,' says Morgan. He's trying to change the subject for me. I appreciate the gesture.

'Best in the country,' I whisper softly.

There's an awkward silence. This day seems to have been filled with awkward silences.

They will never understand.

***

Hotch is trying to get a warrant to look into the Howell Clinic's records. The rest of us are re-evaluating the profile.

White male, between the ages of 35 and 45. Has elements of both organised and disorganised killers. Planned blitz attacks. Possible hate crimes.

'He started off killing for a reason,' says Rossi. 'But now...now he's starting to enjoy the hunt.' His words are expressive. He always seems to be able to turn a profile into some kind of horror story. I'm not contradicting his assessment. This time I know it's true.

'We've got the warrant,' Hotch says. I look at him. That was quick. I realise that he's pulling every string he can on this. I'm silently grateful. He looks in my direction, as if he's about to tell me to stay behind. He sees the look on my face. Angry determination, I believe, is the expression I've put on for him.

'Garcia,' he says. 'Pack your stuff. We'll need you on this.'

He doesn't say anything else.

***

I've been to this place far too often to count. It's a big, white building. Daunting. The rest of them go in, looking all official. I hang back a bit. I don't know if I want to go in there, but I do anyway.

That's courage for you.

I walk a little faster to catch up.

I don't think too many people in there recognise me. They've got dozens of people going in and out of this building daily, and it's been a few weeks since I've last been anyway. Hotch is standing at the reception desk, showing the secretary the warrant.

'Hold on one moment, please.' He gives Hotch a fake smile and picks up the phone. 'Miss Owens. Yes, it's Eric. There are some FBI agents here who would like a copy of our records. Yes they've got a warrant. Okay, I'll tell them.' He hangs up the phone with a clatter. 'Miss Owens will escort you to the records room.'

Hotch, JJ and Garcia go with Miss Owens – a fussy-looking, middle-aged woman – to the records room. Reid, Rossi, Morgan and I stay behind in the reception area. We're observing. I see a few intimidated faces, but that's probably because there are a dozen or so FBI agents milling around the reception area. None of them look guilty of anything beyond a few unpaid parking tickets. But then, the really scary ones are the ones that look innocent.

A few other members of staff have vacated exam rooms, wondering what all the fuss is about. They're all staring at us. I feel eyes upon my neck. I wonder if the unsub is here, watching us. Watching me. My fists clench. I'm so close, and yet so far.

I excuse myself. Go outside. That's not about courage.

That's about self-control.

***

Garcia's got an external hard drive, filled with the Howell Clinic's records. Employees, patients, financial history. Anything that our unsub could have used to link the victims.

'Run your searches,' he tells her. 'Any employee these patients had in common, I want to know about. Any other factor, I want to know about.' He gets her to print out the victims' files, so we can go over them manually. There are too many variables. I don't know if we'll find anything.

'Garcia?' I want to ask her a question while everyone else is going over files.

'What's up, chickadee?' I know the only thing she wants to do is bowl me over with a hug, and I'm glad she's showing restraint. I wonder if it pains her, to be unable to comfort me. I wonder if it pains me, to be beyond comfort.

'The files. Are they collated by couple, or by individual?'

'By individual,' she tells me.

I breathe a sigh of relief. 'Good.' I turn to leave.

'Oh, and Garcia?'

She swivels back to face me.

'Thank-you.'

***

There are no physical signs. She isn't shaking, or sobbing or throwing up – not right now, at least – but Morgan knows that she's breaking. He can spot the details, just like he was trained. He knows what it's like to go through an internal struggle. He puts a hand on her shoulder. She stares up at him, face blank.

'How're you holding up?'

She gives a non-committal answer. He knows it means that she isn't holding up that well. She very rarely tells an outright lie, he notices. She'll be vague, answer the question without really answering it, tell half truths. But rarely ever an outright lie. A side effect of being brought up by politicians. A different kind of deception.

'A bit nauseous,' she tells me.

'Let us help,' he tells her. 'That's what friends are for.'

She laughs dryly. There's no humor in it. 'If I didn't want your help, I'd be out on the street hunting down this guy myself.' She hasn't completely decided against doing that either.

'That's not what I meant,' he tells her. She nods, and he thinks he knows what's going on.

He looks at Alyson Stewart's file. IVF attempts stopped nearly two months ago. He goes to Garcia.

'Hey Baby Girl. Could you pull up Emily's Howell Clinic file for me?' He asks her as if it's just another thing, when they both know it's not. She stares at him.

'I know you want to respect her privacy, but...You remember Chicago? Sealed file. We're only doing this to help her.'

His appeal to past circumstances has some effect. She thinks she knows what he's trying to get at by looking into the file. Tears are forming at the edge of her eyes.

'IVF treatments started two months ago with the sperm of an anonymous donor,' she tells him. 'The file indicates that the treatments were successful. Oh God.' She doesn't want to say it out loud.

Morgan thanks Garcia and leaves. He needs to talk to Emily. It's not about her wanting help anymore.

It's about her needing it.


	9. Intersections In Real Time

Understanding

_**The only normal people are the ones you don't know very well.**_

_Joe Ancis_

***

Interlude II

Warning: Some adult themes in this chapter.

_Four years, four months and nineteen days ago_.

It's been a busy few weeks. We've had cases coming out both ends. Jind Allah. Ronald Weems. Morgan's ordeal in Chicago. Frank. Reid's ordeal in Georgia. I've barely been at home. I have a weekend. The first I've had in a while. I just have to hope that we don't get any call-ins, because I don't want to miss this weekend.

I search through my contacts list. Find her number. One ring. Two rings. I wonder if she's forgotten me. Moved on.

She picks up.

'Hello?'

'Hey.' It's all I can say. I don't know what else to say.

'Oh, hey, Em.' Her voice noticeably brightens. 'What's up?'

I take a deep breath. 'Did you want to go out tonight?' I need to find something personal. If I can't balance personal and professional, then I will "let things get to me" as JJ had so succinctly put it. It is more than that though. I want to see her.

We go out to dinner. It's not a particularly fancy place. The meals are decent without being overpriced.

She tells me about her bad case of the flu. 'And now I'm able to think straight, I look at my diary and realize I have four deadlines next week.'

'"You were sick, but now you are well again. And there's work to be done,"' I quote. Then I kick myself. Did I really just say that? Oh God. I thought I could have hidden it longer than this.

'Who said that?' she asks me. It's genuine curiosity, rather than awkward curiosity.

'Kilgore Trout.'

There's a brief pause. If I were desperate to put my foot in it further, I would have elaborated. _Timequake? Kurt Vonnegut? Vastly unappreciated fictional science fiction author whose works are used as filler in porn mags?_ I think I'll stick with the awkward silence.

I change the subject. 'So, tell me about these deadlines.'

She recovers quickly. 'Well, I've got the editorial to do, plus three filler stories because some idiot forgot to process…'

She continues talking, and I'm listening, but at the same time I'm thinking to myself.

God I'm an idiot.

***

_Four years and three days ago._

I just got back from Idaho. I can still feel the blood dripping from the trees, hitting my face. We're lying on my couch, watching _The Wrath of Kahn_. At least, I'm pretending to watch, but really, my thoughts are elsewhere.

'_Of all the souls I've encountered in my travels, his was the most…human._'

Her finger twirled my hair absent-mindedly. I haven't said much tonight.

'_How could these guys do something like this_?'

'_Because they don't think like you and me_.'

The question still sticks in my mind. What is it about death that turns us all into such cynics?

'…_But the truth is, we _do _think like them_.'

Are we all just teetering on the edge, waiting to be pushed off? So removed from the rest of society that we can't even function in proper relationships? God, I hope not.

Maybe the trick is thinking like them without being them.

'I got you something,' she tells me, as the credits roll. She pulls a small package. It's a lighter, almost replicated from the one that stopped working almost four months ago.

'I spent six weeks trying to find a place that would engrave those words,' she tells me.

'I almost got beaten to death in Ukraine for carrying that thing around,' I say. 'My mother was so angry I almost thought she'd finish the job. Behind closed doors, of course,' I add bitterly.

'Everything okay?'

'It's just…I saw my mother last week. She pretty much dragged us into working a case for her. We went to dinner afterwards. It was…interesting.' Interesting probably wasn't the best word. Awkward would have been better.

'What happened? You told her?'

'Yeah.' It hadn't been a "coming out" conversation so much as an "I'm seeing someone" conversation. She's known about my lack of preference since she caught me going down on the Romanian Ambassador's daughter. That is a conversation I definitely want to erase from my memory.

No, in this case, it was about social status. Apparently I can "do better than that." But that's not what I say to Lee. To Lee, I say, 'She'll get over it eventually.'

Here I am, teetering on that edge.

I hope I don't fall before I'm pushed.

***

_Three years, ten months and nine days ago._

I'm checking the refrigerator. It's almost dinner time. Lee's upstairs taking a bath. I haven't told her that I quit my job.

There's a knock on the door. Hotch. I sigh.

'Can I come in?' I stand back. Let him in. It feels strange. No-one from the team has ever been to my condo before. It's upsetting the balance. 'Team needs us. They're working a case in Milwaukee. Gideon hasn't shown up, and don't tell me you quit or I put in for a transfer.'

'You put in for a transfer?' It surprises me. He's a workaholic. I wonder how he balances it, the work life and the home life. I wonder if his wife has anything to do with this "transfer."

'They're both still hung up in the system, so technically we're in dereliction of duty by not being there.' Huh. I wonder if that's Garcia's dirty work.

'I'm sorry, I can't go.' I want to. I do. But my life is complicated enough without adding covert operations into it. And I don't want to betray the team.

'Sorry I barged in.' He turns to leave.

'Wait, wait. Can I ask – Wha-Why are you really here?' Does he know? I'm pretty sure he does.

'I told you.' He looks at me with intensity. 'I think Strauss came to you and asked for dirt on me.'

'Why would she do that?' He does know.

'I think if you have your eyes on top leadership at the FBI, you want to know who might stand in your way.'

'And what could I have told her?' I'm baiting him now, almost. I need to know if he trusts me. Because there hasn't exactly a whole lot of trust going around the BAU recently.

'That one of my agents might have murdered a suspect in cold blood. Or another might have a serious drug problem that I didn't report, and if Strauss had any evidence my career would be over. I think she put you on our team expecting something in return, and to your credit, you quit rather than whisper in her ear.'

'I told you. I _hate_ politics.' But it's more than that. I tell them almost nothing about my personal life. I don't want to have to start lying to them about work as well. I'd break.

'Come to Milwaukee. I'll make you a deal. If your ready bag isn't here, packed, I won't bother you anymore. But if it is, I want you on that plane with me. One more case.'

I hesitate.

'I already turned in my badge and my gun.'

'That's just hardware.'

'Give me five minutes,' I say. I go upstairs, leaving him in my hallway.

I knock softly on the bathroom door, opening it. 'I have to go to work,' I tell her. My professional side has taken control.

'Do you know when you'll be back?' she asks me.

'No,' I kiss her softly, pulling away before I break those barriers. 'I love you,'

'Yeah,' she says. 'I love you too.'

***

_Three years, ten months and eight days ago_.

I feel like I've just been whacked across the forehead by a two-by-four. Admittedly, it's because I _have _justbeen whacked across the head by a two-by-four. I see things in flashes and blurs, hear things in screams and high-pitches noises.

'Who is this? Where did she come from?'

'She said she was a friend of yours.'

'What?'

'She said she was a friend of yours.'

Is my life about to end right here? In some strange house with three complete strangers, one of them a murderer.

'Take this.'

'I can't.'

'Take it!'

What have I accomplished in life? A job that I quit at the first sign of trouble? A partner I won't even talk to about my job?

I'm sorry, Lee.

'Look. It's okay. It's okay. Just put your finger on the trigger, and you point it right at her. This is their fault! Alright? This is their fault. We're doing the right thing. We're doing the right thing. Point it.'

I feel his hands on me. It's not a warm touch. It's the touch that lets me know I'll be dead in ten seconds if I don't do something.

A different set of hands, pulling me up. My head is throbbing.

'Are you okay?' JJ asks me.

I don't know. Am I?

'I'll be fine,' I tell her.

But will I?

***

_Three years, eight months and fourteen days ago._

I'm at her place tonight. My condo feels too big. Too empty. I can't get Carrie out of my head. Poor kid, losing her entire family to an unsub from a broken home.

My own childhood wasn't exactly picture perfect. It wasn't about abuse or neglect. It was about distance. Physical distance, emotional distance. I want a chance to prove that I can be a decent parent.

'Hey, Lee.' She's lying on my chest, but I know she's not sleeping.

'Mmm?'

'Do you want to have kids someday?' I ask her. She doesn't say anything for a few minutes. Then, finally.

'Yeah,' she says. 'Yeah, I do.'

***

_Two years, five months and eleven days ago_.

I open the door, and the first thing she sees is my face.

'Emily…' She doesn't have to say anything. I know. I look like I've been used for a piñata.

'It's nothing,' I say. 'My cover got blown.' She knew I was going undercover, but that was all I'd told her. I didn't want her to worry.

I wince as she hugs me. My ribs are still tender.

'What did the doctor say?'

'Uh. Fluids. Rest. Don't go getting the crap kicked out of you again.'

She leads me to the couch. I don't think I can manage stairs just yet. The adrenaline had worn off after I left the compound, and I've been in pain ever since.

My head rests on her lap as she plays with my hair. Her hand rests on my collarbone. We don't say anything.

That silence is deafening.

Finally, I speak.

'We were in a cult compound, working with Social Services. Child abuse claims. State police raided while we were in there.' I can imagine her eyes, fearful. I know that it's been the main story for three days. 'Someone from the Attorney-General's office called the media. Told them there were FBI agents inside. The media broadcasted. He comes up to us. Demands to know which one of us is the FBI agent. He points a gun at Reid. Says that God will forgive him. I-I had to stop him. I couldn't let him kill Reid.'

'You told him you were the agent?'

'I didn't know what else to do.' It feels good, this kind of honesty. Telling her about work. I know it'll probably come back and bite me. But right now? I don't really care.


	10. Baited

Understanding

_**Change is the constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix.**_

_Christina Baldwin_

***

VIII

'When are you due?' he asks me softly, so that no-one else can hear. I sigh inwardly. I hadn't really expected to last this long.

I reply in the same quiet voice. I want people finding out on my terms. 'I don't know. I haven't had an ultrasound yet.'

'How long have you known?' He concerned. That's all I ever seem to hear in their voices today.

'About three hours. Who else knows?'

'Just Garcia.'

I almost groan. Garcia has the best intentions. The biggest heart. But the slightest push, the tiniest bit of motivation, and she'll tell anyone anything if it's for the right reason.

I go to the conference table. Sit down. I may as well get this over with.

'Hey Emily…?' Reid starts. He sounds uncomfortable. I don't blame him. 'Alyson's IVF treatments. They stopped, around two months ago. What was the reason for that?' I know it has the reason in the file, but I think he just wants to hear it from me.

I'm quivering. Hotch and JJ have stopped looking through their own files to follow the conversation.

'The treatments were unsuccessful,' I say huskily. I'm holding back the tears. God I hate hormones. 'I didn't…because of work, but after Lee couldn't get pregnant…I started my own treatments two months ago.' A tear escapes. I brush it away. 'I don't know if I can bring up a child on my own.'

Morgan's behind me. 'You're not alone,' he says.

I wish I can believe that. I really do. I know they'll try and be there for me. That they will support me to the best of their abilities. But they cannot stop me from being alone.

Because they don't understand.

***

I don't accompany them when they return to the clinic. They have a list of people they want to talk to. People that fit the profile. People who know people who fit the profile. There were no significant correlations in the victims' files, but that doesn't mean anything. You don't have to be connected to someone to be watching them.

Garcia's re-running the searches. Adjusting parameters. Anything that might find another link between these victims.

I'm staring at case files, not seeing anything of any value. I honestly don't know what I can do to help. I feel useless.

'I might head back to my desk. Get some paperwork done.' I've got a big stack of files that I've been neglecting. Maybe this is a chance to get my mind off of things.

'You sure, sweetheart?'

I raise an eyebrow at her choice of epithet. 'Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure.'

I leave her to her business, and return to my desk. I sort through my inbox as the computer starts up. I really should have had these things done days ago. Reports and consults, mostly.

I play a bit of solitaire before I start. Strictly speaking, the FBI computers are supposed to be a no-fun zone, but Garcia did a bit of tech wizardry. The mind-numbing movement of cards is almost cathartic.

I check my emails. Official stuff, mostly. One email stands out. It's the address that stands out first – a random string of numbers and letters. The kind of thing our spam filters should have blocked. Of course, our technical analysts are far too busy examining criminal hard drives and tracing phone calls to ensure that spam filters are working at full capacity all the time.

"Agent Prentiss," the email begins. Not spam, I guess. "I thought perhaps you ought to see this. I'll be committing the same atrocities to you as I did to your lover." He makes the word lover sound dirty. As if it's something I should be ashamed of.

There's a link below. I make sure the sound is turned down, just in case. I don't hesitate as I click the link. I am beyond hesitation.

I recognize the scene. It's the alleyway behind Enrique's bar. There's a few seconds of dead stillness before the unsub enters the scene. And he's not alone.

It's in a fairly quiet area, Enrique's. Definitely not the place you'd usually expect to find a bar. He could have easily incapacitated her on the street and dragged her into the alley. Drugged her into silence. I'm trying damn hard to think about this objectively, but I know my knuckles are white as my fists clench.

He's beating her. Heavy hits, damaging blows. He doesn't stop at the beating. He's thrown her to the ground. He's violating her repeatedly, as if she was nothing.

She's not nothing.

When he's finished for the last time, he starts hitting her again. Going for the head shots this time. The video quality isn't high, but I feel as if I can see every drop of blood that he draws. The bane of my existence. She's not moving. Her life – her soul – has left her body. But it hasn't left my memories.

And I won't let it.

I close the internet browser, minimize my emails.

I stare at the screen dully. I've made a decision.

I'm not turning back.

I put my badge on my desk, followed by my phone.

I keep my gun with me.

Chances are, I'll need it.


	11. Prey

Understanding

_**All warfare is based on deception. There is no place where espionage is not used. Offer the enemy bait to lure him.**_

_Sun Tzu_

IX

I get up. Leave. At the rate I've been vomiting lately, it should be a while before any of them notice that I'm not coming back. They may not know the full details, but it doesn't take a profiler to know that a good majority of the people in this unit have had some new gossip today.

I ignore the wayward glances, the eyes boring a hole in the back of my neck. The number of observers diminishes as I exit the bullpen. By the time I'm in the elevator, I don't think anyone has noticed that I'm not actually going to the bathroom.

I'm exhausted, despite the fact that I must have spent nearly twelve hours unconscious on the break room couch last night. She hasn't even been dead a full day yet. They haven't even done an autopsy.

If I've learnt one thing from Garcia, it's that if you don't want anyone to find you, then stay off the grid. Take cash; go to places you don't normally go. Do the things they don't expect you to do. Confuse the hell out of them. The thing is, though, I do want someone to find me. Just not them.

***

I park my car in a quiet street, walk to the nearest Metro station. I keep a wary eye out for anyone following me. As far as I can see, there's no-one, but that doesn't mean I'm not being followed.

The sky is dark and dull. It's raining. I hate the rain. I change trains once. Twice. To kill time, mostly. Enrique's doesn't officially open until seven, and I don't want to be there before opening. He'd be there, of course. Enrique and his partner Hennessey live in a small apartment above the bar. But I need to be there when it's open. Not during the peak hour - I need to be there when people are just starting to trickle in.

I've got plenty of cash. To buy people drinks, to get them talking. I get the strangest feeling that I might have seen the unsub before. That dark, imposing figure from the video could have been a phantom, but I still can't shake that feeling.

I'm soaked. Lee's jacket covers me a bit, keeps my shirt and gun dry, but my hair is falling in wet strings, my pants are sticking to my legs. I feel relief as I enter the bar.

Enrique sees me. Even though he's serving someone, he stops what he's doing. Gets me a towel.

'Drinks are on the house tonight,' he tells me. I can't stop shivering. It's not even cold rain.

I clean myself up. Dry myself off. I start feeling a little better. But not a lot.

It's a start.

***

Garcia's cross referencing people who had clinic treatments with people who have used their credit cards at Enrique's bar. Since one of the victims had died in the area, it was possible their unsub had been staking it out. She finds one result. It's not conclusive. The other two might have used cash on their visits. Or, they simply might not have gone at all.

She picks up the phone. Rings Emily's desk. She wants Emily to take a look at the photos of the first three victims again – to make sure she doesn't recognize them. There's no answer. Worried, Garcia brings up the security footage for the bullpen. Maybe Emily has broken down. Is curled up in a little ball, sobbing her eyes out. It's what anyone else would be doing.

The desk is empty.

She gets up. The bathrooms are the next obvious place to look. But after several lawsuits, closed circuit cameras aren't allowed in there anymore. It has to be a physical search.

'Emily?' She walks along the line of stalls, looking for Emily's feet beneath a door. Nothing.

She goes to the bullpen. She wants to see for herself that the desk is empty. It's empty of Emily, yes. But next to those carefully arranged files are a badge and a phone. She sees the email program still open on the computer. She examines it. Sees the last opened email. Clicks the link.

'Oh my God,' says Garcia.

Emily Prentiss has left the building.

***

'He'd be between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five. White. Probably divorced or single, but with a significant past relationship…' They've split up, each giving the profile to a different employee.

'Hotch!' calls out Morgan. He's got something. Hotch comes over to Morgan and the woman he's interviewing.

'Tell him,' Morgan encourages the woman.

'Well…' starts the woman hesitantly. 'Rob is one of our IT guys. He's forty-something, maybe. I don't know. His wife left him last week, I heard.' She leans in closer, as if not wanting anyone else to hear. 'The rumor is that his wife left him for another woman. She was going to have their baby soon. I guess that's not going to happen anymore.' She sounds almost disappointed.

'Rob didn't come into work today?' asks Morgan. He's afraid he already knows the answer.

'No.' She shakes her head. 'He said he was sick. Flu or something. I found that a little bit suspicious. It's summer, y'know.'

Hotch's phone rings. 'Garcia, I was just about to-Wait, wait. Slow down. What happened?' His mouth opened slightly. It's almost imperceptible. He hangs up quickly.

'What happened, man?' asks Morgan. 'Did she find something?'

'Yes. Emily left the office. Garcia thinks she's trying to bait the unsub.'


	12. Reckless

Understanding

_**The greatest mystery is not that we have been flung at random between the profusion of matter and of the stars, but that within this prison we can draw from ourselves images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.**_

_Andre Malraux_

***

Interlude III

_Five years, one month and nine days ago_.

The house feels empty, but I know that there's a killer inside it. I called it in. They told me to wait for backup. I told them that there just wasn't time. That this guy could kill the victim before back-up even got anywhere near the place.

The kitchen is void of human life. There are a few rats scurrying about the place. I suppress the urge to shoot one. I hear sounds from upstairs. Whimpers, moans. He's killing her. I need to stop it.

I take the stairs as quietly as possible. One creak, one groan that's out of place and our victim is dead. My fingers grip the gun tightly. I should be scared. I should be apprehensive. I'm not. For me, it doesn't really matter how this turns out.

I'm nearing the top of the stairs. I can hear his voice. He's taunting her. 'You're nothing but a cheap whore,' he says. 'But don't worry. Soon you'll be a dead, cheap whore.' She tries to scream, but she is gagged. I can see her, eyes streaming with tears, through a partially open doorway. I see him, knife in his hand.

I take another step.

The quietest creak.

He hears it. He opens the door, sees me standing there, gun pointed right at him. 'FBI,' I say. 'Drop the weapon.' He looks at me. Looks at the knife. He's going to take his chances. He dive tackles me, and I feel my gun discharge once. Twice.

We're going backwards, down the stairs. It feels almost like flying. His hands are limp. He's already dead. It comes in short bursts of pain. I hit one step, then another. By the time I'm lying still, the pain is all I feel.

I push him off me. It's difficult. He's a dead weight in all senses of the word. Finally, he rolls away. But he leaves the knife behind. I look down and see the handle protruding from my thigh. It stands to reason that the blade has slid through flesh and muscle, but I don't think I'm feeling reason anymore. Blood loss.

I try and pull the handle away, but I am met with agonizing pain. My hand comes away soaked with blood. That isn't the only place that hurts. My neck, my arm, my back. They're all in pain. But the thigh is the worst of it.

I'm swimming now. It feels like I'm floating. Floating away into nothingness.

The world starts to fuzz. Black dots dancing in the corner of my eyes. They spread, a disease of darkness that takes over my body. I'm slipping into unconsciousness.

Slipping into the unknown.

***

_Five years, one month and six days ago._

I wake up.

I'm cold. I can't breathe.

I try to sit up, but that omnipresent pain has lingered.

'Well now. Look who's finally up,' a voice tells me. Max Grafton. My partner?

Where am I?

'You're in hospital,' this voice – Max – tells me. 'You've been unconscious for three days.'

Unconscious? What happened? My mind flicks through still frames. Trying to find a plausible memory.

A house. A man. A knife. Stairs. Pain.

'Did she survive?' I ask, referring to the victim.

'Yeah,' he says. 'She'll be fine, physically.'

'And the unsub?'

'Dead.'

I take stock of my own body. I'm fuzzy. I believe the technical term for that is "high as a kite." My arm is in a cast, my thigh has a big white bandage. I put my good arm to my head; there's a bandage there too. I don't remember hitting my head. But then, I guess, you never do.

***

_Five years, one month and four days ago._

It's two days later. My boss is coming to see me. I know how badly that is going to turn out.

He doesn't yell.

He never yells.

It's a scolding voice that's a million times worse.

What is he scolding me for? Reckless endangerment. Not waiting for back-up. Stupidity.

'She would have died if I hadn't gone in,' I tell him.

'We have protocol for a reason,' he says. There's anger in his voice. Is he about to fire me?

Not quite, but he might as well.

'Desk duty,' he says. 'Eight months.'

Fan-fucking-tastic.


	13. Recognizing Evil

Understanding

_**In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior.**_

_Sir Francis Bacon_

***

X

I'm drinking lemonade. Sitting at a table where I can use my profiling experience to watch the rest of the bar. It's difficult. Some of them might be staring because they're interested. Some might be staring because I'm uncharacteristically alone. Some might be staring because they know what happened to Lee last night, not fifty feet from here, and no-one heard a thing.

The music is a little quieter tonight. As if loud music was the only thing that stopped anyone from knowing the atrocities that were occurring.

Tonight, I am beyond anger. An angry person acts in rage, without considering reason. I know what's happening. I've considered the possibilities, and I know that this is the only course of action I can take. It's either this, or shutting myself away from the world until they pick this guy up on an unpaid parking ticket.

There's no going back now.

***

Hotch, Reid, Rossi, JJ and Morgan drive back to the BAU in record time. Garcia is standing in the bullpen next to Emily's desk, looking frantic. She shows them the email, and the link attached to it.

'I couldn't trace the email,' she says. 'Or the link.'

'Our suspect does IT work for the Howell Clinic,' Hotch tells her. She doesn't seem to be comforted much by this. She prides herself on being the best of the best.

'I _did_ track the GPS in Emily's car. It's in Alexandria. Near the King Street Metro Station.'

'The blue line and the yellow line run from King Street. She could be going anywhere,' Hotch concludes.

'But she won't be,' says Reid. 'She'll want to go somewhere where she knows the unsub will find her. That narrows it down a fair bit.'

'There are three places we know of that both Emily and the unsub have been to,' says Morgan. 'The Howell Clinic, Emily's condo and Enrique's bar.'

Hotch nods. 'Reid, JJ. Go to the clinic. Rossi, go to the apartment. Morgan, you're with me. Be careful,' he warns.

But they don't really know who they're supposed to be saving. Emily from the unsub, or the unsub from Emily. Either notion had the opportunity of evolving into a different scenario altogether:

Saving Emily from Emily.

***

I see a man walk into the bar. My head is low, and I'm not sure if he sees me. Almost instantly, I know that it is him. I've seen him before, yes. Both here and at the clinic. But it is something more than that. Something deeper. He instantly fills the building with an undeniable hatred. A slow, crawling disgust that makes me shiver. He's not an unattractive man, but I see fire and brimstone. Horns and tails. As if there is no possible way that evil could ever disguise itself in the body of an ordinary man.

I wonder what happened to make him the way he is. I wonder if he was always evil, or if life just made him that way. I wonder if he lost someone, a stressor that sent him over the edge. I wonder if I'm beyond redemption, just like he is.

I get up to leave. The people that see don't seem to care, and the people that care don't seem to see. All but one. He sees. He cares. But he's not going to show it. Not right now.

***

He sees her leave the bar. He wants to get up and follow, but he doesn't. Not yet. He's got the needle, ready to leave her helpless. He's got the fists, ready to beat her into unconsciousness. He's got the ambition, the inclination.

Tonight's the night.

***

I'm outside, under the pretence of smoking a cigarette in the pouring rain. I just hope he's dumb enough to go for it. I feel a wave of nausea rising up. It's not the kind of thing I can fake, but the timing is pretty good. I needed a distraction anyway. I saw him exit the bar.

I run for the alleyway, dropping to my knees beside a trashcan. There wasn't much in my stomach to begin with, so it's mostly dry retching. I'm coughing into the bin, all the while keeping an ear out for footsteps.

I turn, just as he's about to put the needle into my neck. His strength relies on the element of surprise. I put a hand up to block his. He is shocked. Beaten at his own game. I'm staring into his eyes. These wide blue eyes that don't even betray a hint of evil. We're at a Mexican standoff for a single second.

Then, he flees.

I chase after him.

I am not going to let him get away.


	14. Blood Soaked

Understanding

_**Life wouldn't be worth living if I worried over the future as well as the present.**_

_W. Somerset Maugham_

***

XI

My head is pounding. My breathing is heavy. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in speed. The rain blurs my eyes. I have trouble seeing. I don't even notice the fist hitting my face until I'm sprawled on my back.

He relies on the element of surprise.

He was hiding behind a corner, just waiting for me to catch up. Blood drips from my nose, and I'm having trouble getting breaths out.

He hesitates. He doesn't want to fight someone who can fight back. He goes for the needle again. He should have gone for something that packed a bigger punch. I'm sure he's got another weapon somewhere.

I'm back on my feet before he can plunge the needle into me. I knock it out of his hands, and it falls to the ground, smashing. Whatever drug was inside it is soon lost to the puddles of rain.

He's lost his confidence. He gets in a few lucky shots, and then he goes for broke. He reaches for his knife a split second before I go for my gun. Normally, I'd be faster, but he has the upper hand in terms of personal circumstances.

It's a Mexican standoff.

'Put your weapon down,' I tell him. My voice is cold. Any warmth I might ever have possessed is gone. Washed away by the rain.

'Did you like my little video?' he asks me. He's trying to distract me. Get me to falter, to lower my weapon, or to lose my temper. 'Did you like how I made her mine? I bet you've never made her yours. Not in that way.'

It's not working. He's not going to make me angry. He's not going to make me angry.

A flash of hazel eyes. I remember her voice. I remember her touch. My hands shake. I want so badly to pull the trigger.

He senses my distraction. We both move at the same time.

A knife in the dark.

A single gunshot.

***

They're four blocks away when they hear the distinctive gunshot. That tiny crack means everything to them. They think dark thoughts. Thoughts of death and of dissociation. That tiny crack that might mean they've lost Emily for good.

Two friends before this, they've watched go down a similar path. A downward spiral after a traumatic event. The guilt, the anger, the pain. They didn't want this to happen again, and yet they're already so sure that it has.

Morgan steps on the gas pedal just a little bit harder.

***

My hands are still shaking. I'm pointing the gun right at his head. He's lying there, looking up at me in obvious pain. His hand covers his knee, as if he's trying to hold all the blood in. I've got a knife stuck in my shoulder, but I'm not exactly paying attention to that right now. I've got much more important things to do.

Blood soaks me, but the rain washes it away, just like it's washed everything else away. In this moment, I have nothing left.

'You killed her,' I find myself saying. 'You killed her. She never did anything to you. She was a good person.'

He doesn't say anything. He's in too much pain. Good.

'I was in a dark place before I met Lee,' I tell him. 'And now that she's gone…It's kind of ironic. That she could have stopped me from killing you. You want to kill me? Well you did it the moment you took away the only thing that was keeping me sane.'

My finger tightens on the trigger. Before I can embrace that darkness, I hear a voice in the night.

'Emily.' It's Morgan. I don't turn to face him, but I can imagine that he's holding his weapon. That it's pointed at me.

'He killed her, Morgan.' I say. My voice is dead. 'He killed her like she was nothing.'

'I know that, Emily.' He's got that soothing tone in his voice. 'And he'll go to prison for a very long time.' I know this drill. It's the standard "talk down a psychotic killer" routine. And this time, I'm the psychotic killer.

'Put down the gun, Emily.' It's Hotch this time.

'I can't,' I say. I don't have the strength to shoot, but I don't have the strength to put the gun down either.

I can hear the slicking sound of their footsteps, moving closer.

'You're not a killer.'

'Don't try that yellow crayon bullshit on me,' I say, but I loosen my grip just a tiny bit anyway.

'Please, Emily.' Morgan's voice has a sense of pleading to it. It's a personal touch. I know that if I pull the trigger, I'll be hurting them as much as I'll be hurting me. I know this, and yet I still don't have the strength to put the gun down.

'I need help,' I say, and I realize that I've started to cry. The tears mingle with the rain. Everything is washing away. All those moments lost.

That easy grin. That alluring smell of cigarettes and bourbon. A hand on mine.

It's not Lee's hand, I realize. It's Hotch's. I let him take the gun from me. Then, finally I feel the pain that's been wracking me. I feel the physical pain and the emotional pain. I feel the knife in my shoulder and I feel the chunk that's been torn from my soul. I fall to my knees. I'm letting it all out, just like I did on that first night.

This time, Morgan holds me. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't judge me, or try to comfort me. He just takes me in his arms, keeping pressure on my wound, and he lets me know that he's there.

The rain washes away any evidence of this encounter, but it's still there, burned into my memory. I will never forget.

God I hate the rain.

**A/N: Two more chapters after this, and then I'm done. Any questions, any criticisms, anything whatsoever, voice them now. A second note, I'm not really that experienced at writing, well, "romantic" stories, nor have I had any experience with fslash. Tell me, oh sage ones. How have I done so far? Also, I'm thinking of changing the title to reflect the story better, as "Understanding" only really works for the first chapter, and after that it just sounds a little cheesy. What do you all think of something like "Raindrops" or something else rain-related?  
**


	15. So It Goes

Understanding

_**Truly, to tell lies is not honorable;  
but when the truth entails tremendous ruin,  
To speak dishonorably is pardonable.**_

_Sophocles_

***

XII

He is standing in the office of Erin Strauss, explaining exactly what had happened that night. She listens intently, only speaking once Hotch has finished.

'You didn't think to tell me you were going to use Agent Prentiss to draw out the killer?' she asks him.

He can't recall having explicitly lied to Erin Strauss before. He has withheld information, about Elle, about Reid, but he doesn't know if he's ever actually lied to her. Until now.

'We had reason to believe that the unsub was monitoring FBI communications. We needed to make people believe that Agent Prentiss had gone to the bar of her own accord.'

Strauss eyes him suspiciously, but eventually nods. She is accepting his version of events. For now.

***

I wake up.

The room is bright, and I wonder why I didn't wake up before. I'm in a hospital bed. It's a nice change from the break room couch. A peripheral IV has been shoved into my wrist. My shoulder feels raw, but the pain isn't that overwhelming. I suspect drugs might have something to do with that.

My wounds weren't particularly life threatening. Yes, I lost a bit of blood, and the bruises will take a while to fade, but there was never a real chance of me not making it through the night. It is because of this, I am surprised to see JJ and Garcia curled up on the two visitors' chairs, staring at the morning sun.

'You guys should go home,' I tell them, and they jump, only just now realizing that I am awake. 'Get a proper night's sleep.'

Garcia rolls her eyes at me. 'As if we're going to leave when you need us.'

'It's not like I'm in a coma,' I reply. I realize that I sounded a little more derisive than I had intended. 'Sorry. It's just…I'm not going to be dying any time soon.'

'We're not talking about physical need, chickadee.' She perches herself on the edge of the bed, careful not to upset the mattress. 'We're talking emotional and psychological too.'

I've been expecting that. I haven't exactly been holding myself together all that well lately. I nod.

'So how're you feeling?' she asks me.

I stare into the distance, thinking. I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to answer that question. Yes, it's over, the unsub has been caught, but that doesn't necessitate my immediate recovery.

'I don't know,' is the answer I finally settle on. She puts a hand on my good shoulder.

'That's a good answer,' she tells me. 'Now I have to go get Hotch. He wanted to talk to you once you woke up.' I don't like the sound of that. I don't know how many Bureau rules I broke, how many _laws _I almost broke.

JJ gives me a smile of encouragement as she exits the room. Somehow, I'm not feeling as optimistic as she is.

'So,' I ask. 'Am I fired?' I don't know if I could handle being fired. It's hard to keep a balance in your personal and professional life when you don't have anything left of either.

'No,' he says finally, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. 'Everybody gets one minor screw-up. Consider this your only warning.' I've often heard people describe Hotch as a hard-ass. Now more than ever, I feel like tracking down those people and telling them how wrong they are.

'Sick leave. Bereavement leave. Therapy sessions. Psych evaluation.' He lists the things I'll need to go through before I can return to work.

'How long?'

'Three months.'

It's not bad, considering. I try not to remember that I'll have to take maternity leave at one point as well. I'll take this one thing at a time.

'We're here for you,' he tells me as he leaves. And this time, I believe it.

***

I'm sitting in the back row of the church, my arm in a sling. I'm wearing black. Absent-mindedly, I wonder just how many funerals I've been to. It's into double figures at the very least. Lee's brother Travis is giving the eulogy. I was almost going to do it, but I know I would have broken down half way through.

Instead, I've got a poem. It isn't a relatively long poem; it might take a minute or so to recite, but still, I doubt my capacity to make it through even a minute. A hand grasps mine. Morgan's. He's sitting to my left, Reid to my right. The BAU fills the back row.

This is all I am. This is all I will ever be. Kept in balance by the two facets of my existence. I stand up. Make my way towards the altar.

I stare down at the poem. It's as though I can't even comprehend the words. I see them, but it is as if they're not there. I open my mouth, try to read them, but I can no longer speak.

I look out into the sea of darkness. Tears mirror mine. I catch the glance of my friends, my family, my colleagues. All the same.

I stare down at the poem. I scrunch it up and throw it sideways.

I look out into the sea of darkness. I say three words.

'So it goes.'

Because I can cry all I want, but that doesn't change what happened. I can wish death upon my enemies, but that will not wipe their slate clean.

A few people – Morgan included – nod in appreciation of the words. The rest, though they don't recognize the reference, attempt to give a polite reaction anyway.

They don't understand.

And it's okay.

Because neither do I.

**THE END.**

**A/N: Well, I was going to do an epilogue, but I think that this scene wraps it up better. Here's some answers to the questions some of you were wanting.**

**The engraving on the lighter. This is a reference to a '90s comic book series known as Preacher. The main character inherited a lighter from his father with the words "FUCK COMMUNISM" engraved on it, hence the reference to Emily almost being beaten to death in Ukraine for possessing it. Some might also recognize the lighter from Y: The Last Man, where Yorrick is also nerdy enough to get the same engraving.**

**The DVDs. Yes, as someone did pick up on, the DVDs that they watched a lot were the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica DVDs.**

**Tears in the Rain. The second chapter title is a reference to the film Blade Runner, and Roy Batty's famous speech.**

**Intersections in Real Time. The name of a Babylon 5 episode.**

**The Spanish Inquisition. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!**

**Yellow crayon. Emily's words "don't try that yellow crayon bullshit on me," refers to the season six finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Xander (Kevin Lynch :D) tries to talk Willow out of destroying the world by reminding her of her innocence.**

**So it goes. Anyone who has read Slaughterhouse-Five will know this one. It's a phrase used to emphasize "****fatalism, stoicism and the acceptance that no use will come of shrinking away when the worst has happened."**

**I hope this list helps anyone who was wondering. If there are any I missed out, someone please remind me.**


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